The Candidate
by LoyaulteMeLie
Summary: The officers and crew for Enterprise's launch are being selected, and Harris has a visitor.


**Disclaimer: Star Trek and all its intellectual property belongs to CBS/Paramount. No infringement intended, no money made.**

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"Come in!"

There's a slight pause before the door opens – a pause that could mean anything or nothing. He's aware that it's meant to unsettle, and smiles slightly. His visitor knows perfectly well that the trick won't work on him; it's just old habits dying hard.

The room is in darkness, except for the angle-poise lamp on the table in front of him. The desk is completely clear except for a stainless-steel dish with three sugared almonds in it, that sits almost – but not quite – directly in the lamp's circle of light. There are no windows, and only one door. The walls are lined with filing cabinets that may or may not have anything in them, though only one has a label on the front.

The label, like everything else in the room, is completely blank.

The door hisses open. His visitor enters, slender, graceful and almost soundless in the soft black fabric and special shoes that are very much a part of his trade. Harris takes the time to admire his unselfconsciousness as he seats himself without asking permission; he's come a long way from the gauche young man who really had no idea what he was letting himself in for, but was eager to let himself in for it anyway.

Eager to excel.

Yes, he's done that alright. He's a past master now at what he does, and a long way past caring. The gray eyes meet his without evasion and without yielding, giving nothing.

"I've a job for you." The spymaster cedes him the small advantage of not being the first to break the silence. They both know it doesn't matter, not in the long run.

"So I was told." The English voice hasn't changed so much, though it's older of course, and maybe there's an edge of arrogance that wasn't there before, but that comes when you're good at what you do and know it.

Harris leans back in the chair, linking his hands comfortably. "You'll have heard of the _Enterprise_."

"Of course."

"She'll need a Tactical Officer."

"Of course."

"And they're looking for a highly qualified Lieutenant to fit the bill."

"Of course."

It's wholly unnecessary to dwell on the fact that he's a highly qualified lieutenant, though the 'experienced' part of the CV may require a little manipulation to fit the Starfleet recruiting board's exacting requirements. Soon-to-be-Captain Jonathan Archer might not particularly approve of some of his prospective officer's more unusual skills, such as espionage, sabotage and murder. Best, on the whole, to concentrate on his exceptional qualifications and weapons skills (entirely genuine), and repose the appropriate confidence in the support team who will come up with an entirely plausible history of service that will resist even the most determined efforts to find a flaw in it. It won't, of course, bear the slightest resemblance to the service he's actually been in, but then Archer is a straight guy who probably hasn't even heard of Section 31 and wouldn't approve of it if he had, so what he doesn't know won't hurt him.

"We think it's to our advantage to have one of our own people aboard," Harris continues suavely. "It's not quite what you're used to, but you've proved you're adaptable – I'm sure you'll manage."

He watches, with admiration but without surprise, as the man before him subtly changes persona. Hardly moving a muscle, the lean frame takes on stiffness and formality.

"I'm sure my qualifications will be found suitable, sir." The voice is cool and armoured, its upper-class accent slightly more pronounced. "I believe in strict discipline and the constant pursuit of excellence. I'm fully experienced in the use of the most up-to-date weapons Starfleet has produced, and in all functions of a Tactical Officer and Head of Security."

"Very good, Mister Reed." A ghost of a smile. "I'm sure Captain Archer will be most impressed."

The formality slithers off again, as smooth as shed snakeskin. "I already took the liberty of making the acquaintance of Commander Tucker, who's not only going to be the Chief Engineer but happens to be Captain Archer's best friend from when they were involved with the testing of the prototype NX engine. And is quite a regular at the 602 Club, as it happens. "

"That's the stuff," says Harris approvingly. "Ruby, her name is."

"Quite." The lids veil the cold eyes briefly, and there's the fleeting suspicion of a smirk. Clearly Ruby's charms have been thoroughly investigated already, but then Ruby is – let's say – generous with her favors.

"Of course, I didn't know who he was," Reed continues. "I simply happened to be reading an article on advanced warp theorem and making notes as he was passing."

"Just like your average Joe in the 602 Club _would_ be doing of an evening."

"But then, if you want to be taken for something a little more than your average Joe, you might be advised to read something a little more advanced than the usual station dross."

"Absolutely." He snickers soundlessly. "And our Mister Tucker was impressed, I take it."

"He wasn't giving much away." The English voice takes on a faint note of amusement. "But he's not one of life's natural poker-faces, is he?"

"That'll give you the edge if they play poker in the evenings aboard _Enterprise_."

"Sir! It would be counter to Regulation 102, Section 4, Paragraph 3A to obtain money from my fellow officers by fraudulent means."

"Would it?" Harris laughs, genuinely entertained by the theatrical British indignation.

"Yes," says the lieutenant promptly.

"So you know the type of guy they'll be looking for when they interview you."

Aristocratic British disdain in the lifted lip. "The usual stereotype. Stiff. Shy. Straight. Fucks with the lights off, and only in the missionary position."

"It's a five-year stint," he warns, hiding another smile at how incongruous the crudity sounds in the correct English voice. "Long time to stay undercover."

"Hiding in plain view." Reed shrugs negligently. "The safest place to hide anything. I'll manage. Usual terms."

"You'll be on the standard pay grade, of course."

"Oh, of course." The amount that will be waiting in a discreet account when he finishes the op will be quite separate from his lieutenant's pay, and not subject to scrutiny by the taxman. That's one of the benefits of working undercover, and a handsome one it is when you're prepared to do anything – _anything_ – that your handler wants you to. Apparently an old British saying observes that 'Where there's muck there's brass', and Section 31 has never really minded getting its operatives' fingers mucky.

"And in the meantime, I daresay I'll look up a few old acquaintances while I'm here," Reed continues, thrusting his hands casually into his pockets. "Given the non-frat regulations, five years is a long time to go without."

"You're confident you'll get the post."

"You wouldn't have suggested it if you couldn't swing it, and you wouldn't give me so much as a sniff at it if you didn't know I could do it." The smile is as soft and bitter as rotten lemons. "The Section, take the chance of endangering Starfleet's poster-boy and his daddy's ship? Please."

"Take it as a compliment," Harris suggests lightly.

"I'll take it as a job. No more, no less." With a sudden fluid movement, he stands. "I don't need praise from you, and you don't need gratitude from me. We're both bastards, and let's leave it at that."

"If that's what you're more comfortable with." He shrugs. "Expect the first of the interview boards next Monday. We have to be seen to be going through the motions."

"One stuffed-shirt Brit ready on demand, sir. Whenever required."

There's no salute as he leaves, only the deft removal of one of the sugared almonds, which he tosses into the air and catches between his teeth before munching it with a smile that's partway between glee and crazed hatred.

Faintly from the corridor outside come the retreating, whistled strains of _'Rule Britannia'._

Harris waits until the buzzer at the outer doors sounds, and then he turns. "You think he'll do?"

The tall figure moves from the deep shadow that has hidden him – possibly – from the notice of the visitor. "Perfectly. It always pays to have a weak link in the chain of command."

The spymaster is indifferent to the Vulcan's disdain. His aim today is to foster good relations between the Section and the V'Shar, and if that means sacrificing one of his best men, that's what he'll do. It may be that there'll never be a use for a Section sleeper aboard _Enterprise_, but if there is, this the one to have there – and in the meantime, he hides yet another smile at Reed being described as a 'weak link'.

Once upon a time that description might have been accurate, but the Section's had him since then. Had him and twisted him and made him part of itself, and the Section is as hard as it has to be to get things done. The Jonathan Archers of this world get to stroll in the sunlight because the Harrises and Reeds of it are busy in the dark. Most of Starfleet's top brass really have no idea what goes on behind the scenes, and those few who guess are careful never to know too much.

The powerful, aggressive Klingon Empire is becoming dangerously unstable. The technically-advanced Vulcans are trying to keep the lid on the fact that they've got domestic problems of their own that may yet become more than just a minor inconvenience. It's no more than sensible for someone – someone not too fussy about the methods involved – to do a little negotiating under the table with anyone who wants to talk.

At a guess, Archer won't be any too pleased by the imposition of a Vulcan officer among his bridge staff. While he's busy glaring at her, he'll be less likely to look too hard at the ultra-respectable guy at Tactical with a gift for shooting things and a passion for blowing things up. Still, the High Command know that T'Pol's presence aboard the ship is only temporary, and they want to have a little insurance in place for after she's been recalled to service with Soval. Why, it's not Harris's job to ask. They've agreed to cooperate, and that's the important thing; it smoothes the way for _Enterprise_'s launch and more importantly, it gives the Section a well-manicured finger in the pie for the next five years. If the High Command think that finger will be at their beck and call too, well – there's always room for negotiation.

An offered handshake would be regarded with disdain, and the _ta'al_ is hardly appropriate, even if the V'Shar operative would acknowledge it, which he most likely wouldn't. A nod does the business, avoiding any suggestion that gratitude might be appropriate. Shrugging mentally, Harris watches the guy slide out of the office. For all his elegant robes and chiselled face, he makes a third bastard – it's just that he's too conceited to acknowledge it even to himself.

For a few minutes he sits on in the pool of light in the midst of darkness, his eyes half-lidded as he weighs risks and opportunities. Then he opens the desk drawer and takes out a communicator.

"Get me Admiral Gardner."


End file.
